Pedestal
by m.mfr
Summary: "And then Sherlock had peered at you intently, narrowing his eyes and raising an eyebrow. "It is more than likely that the two of you would have engaged in sexual intercourse before she'd leave you a false number in the morning."" Slash.


Think back to before you met him. Ordinary. Normal. You had the chance of getting a full night's sleep without him knocking on your door before letting himself in and find some sort of way, occasionally painful, to wake you up. You wouldn't like to think 'dull' because you're certain that that's the way John Watson sees it, like Sherlock did him some sort of favour, like he rescued him from living like the rest of you normal people. It's childish but being around the two of them makes your skin itch, makes your eye twitch and your blood boil. It's in the way that Sherlock tolerates Watson's eyes on him for too long for normal, the way that Sherlock smirks and it reminds you of a night that he probably doesn't remember, doped up and flushed like a cheap whore.

You'd say that you're a fairly reasonable man when it comes to Sherlock; you tolerate the tantrums and minimise the insults that your staff hurl out – when you're around, that is. You tell yourself that you're glad that Sherlock doesn't play the violin at three o'clock in the morning in your bathtub anymore and that your lungs are appreciating the rest from chain-smoking together all night during particularly gruelling cases. You're even beginning to sound like him – since when did you use the word gruelling? No, as he said himself, you don't have much in the way of brains; brute force got you where you are today.

Slap on another nicotine patch. It's 5am and it'll be a shame to waste your day off catching up on the sleep you know you should have had last night but you're not like him. You can't survive on about two hours of sleep and pick apart people, piece by piece, until all that's left in front of them is every little detail they've tried to hide. You know that too well, the way he looked at you with those glittering eyes the first time you smoked with him and uttered, "First-time smoker, eager to impress, wants to go far in life."

That was nine years ago. You were twenty-eight and finally getting somewhere in life when you'd discovered this snotty-nosed cokehead sitting on your battered sofa, finally inherited from your dearly departed mother. He'd taken one look at you before he'd opened his mouth and this scrawny excuse for a man, with his pipe-cleaner legs and his two-inches-too-long haircut had suddenly swept your life into total chaos.

"Twenty-eight, your mother just died. You finally stood up to your father and," he paused, his eyes scanning you. "He attempted to hit you. You were twelve the first time he threatened you. Your mother never did anything to stop it and your brother started staying over at his friend's house all the time. You left when you were...eighteen?"

"And a half."

You were almost impressed before you realised that there was a complete stranger lounging on your sofa, one hand clutching a lit cigarette, the other supporting a tilted head. You recognised the signs of an addict; the sharp cheekbones, the way that he kept his back hunched and the neglected haircut – once cut in the height of fashion, now unwashed and left to grow of its own accord. You took a wary step forward, using all of your basic training to check if he had a visible weapon. Saw nothing. You weren't sure if he was totally mentally unbalanced or just plain stupid.

"Are you stalking me?" You asked cautiously, doing your best to maintain eye contact, trying to keep your voice even.

He sniggered, if you could call it that. You'd not be fooling anyone if you said that you were particularly intelligent, but even you can tell that a man like this is from the higher end of society, given his accent and the way he holds himself. You've never met anyone quite like him and the sensible part of yourself that is heading for promotion even now is telling you to phone your boss right now.

"Before you do anything particularly stupid, bear in mind that the young girl you're looking for at this very moment will die in precisely," he checks his watch, an obviously expensive detail that you hadn't noticed before, "eight hours and sixteen minutes. So I think it would be best to listen, don't you?"

The sudden sharpness of his voice and the coldness in his eyes strikes something inside of you and for a split-second, this man is close to terrifying you. You swallow hard, take down the oxygen along with the pride you've built up over the past ten years.

"Tell me what you want."

He narrows his eyes, but doesn't break the contact. "Under the circumstances, that would be the wrong question."

"Tell me what to do."

"

It's a month later and you've just solved a small case of petty crime when he drags himself onto your doorstep in the dead of night. Presses the buzzer six, seven times before you stumble blindly out of bed and go staggering down the stairs clad only in your work shirt and boxers.

"Your sofa would be appreciated right now." He gasps out, and you can see his forehead pressed to the ground in the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway.

You take great care to avoid looking at the puddle of liquid gathered next to his head and grab his arm roughly, pulling him up the flight of stairs because the lift just doesn't seem to work for you most of the time. Inside your head you're panicking, knowing that you're in trouble if anyone sees you and reports it in the morning. Knowing that being the go-to guy for a druggie is essentially one of your worst ideas yet, even if the druggie seems to be some sort of genius.

Looking at him stretched out on your sofa, somehow still elegant, you're fully aware of the consequences if you ever get caught with this man in your flat.

"Come here." He mutters in a gravelly voice that you almost mistake for seduction before remembering that it's the burn from whatever he's taken. "My head hurts, Lestrade. All these people I pass, they surely cannot be quite as insignificant and unimportant as they seem."

For a minute, you're struck with a wave of pity before you remember that you're kneeling next to a nameless man who could potentially ruin your life. So you prise his fingers off your shirt. Wipe away the grit and dirt from his face. Fetch him a glass of water. And finally, you settle down on the floor by his side to watch over him.

"You could be a good man," you tell him. "You could be the best."

His mouth twists to the side, even in a half-daze.

"I am the best." He tells you condescendingly. "But there's no fun in that anymore."

"

That night, you let him use you. Let him place inexperienced, open-mouthed kisses over your neck, let him bite on your shoulder so hard that he almost draws blood, his nails digging into your back. You don't say anything when he curls inwards next to you on the cramped sofa, his knees and elbows sticking into you.

And most of all, you certainly don't say anything as you tip-toe back to your room at the break of dawn, remembering the feeling of burning skin and blinked-away-tears pressed against your chest.

For seven months, you both keep an unspoken promise. You find that crucial pieces of evidence arrive at the police station in sealed plastic bags, just in time to make or break a case. In return, you think of elaborate explanations (lies, all lies, but damn good lies) for the evidence to keep the people at the top happy. It's almost like a twisted game of chess; you make a point by appearing in the newspapers to help open a clinic for recovering addicts. He takes your point and responds angrily; a crime scene is completely cleared of all clues before he leaves a piece of evidence minutes before a victim is killed. You are furious, but you get the hint. Don't interfere.

Occasionally, you think you see glimpses of him around town and you get this sick sort of feeling in your stomach which switches between dread and anticipation. You hate to admit it, but you're worried. Worried the drugs are worse than before. Worried he'll suddenly disappear one day. And somewhere inside of you, you know that you're worried that he's in charge of everything.

The cases get harder and the evidence gets more cryptic and your bosses get more suspicious. Important people whose names you're not allowed to know start appearing and disappearing around the police station. Things are changing.

You tell yourself you're not waiting. You know you're lying. You don't know what you're waiting for.

It's a long seven months.

"

On the fifth of September, you enter the police station at precisely thirty-two minutes and twenty-seven seconds past eight. You have had roughly seventy-six minutes and fifty-five seconds of sleep. You are struggling on this case; there have been three bodies in the past five days and while it has been agreed that for once, you should be allowed to help lead the case, there has been a lot of angry muttering. Every time you close your eyes, you can see the bodies laid out in the street for the world to see. This has meant that you have also had to deal with the public; something you are incredibly bad at.

At exactly twenty-five minutes to nine, you have entered the room with the case files and stopped dead. You can't remember any details of the case itself anymore because he's standing there with one of those superiors so important that you don't know his name and you have a feeling that you're about to be fired, which was really a shame because you were looking forward to placing a typical photo frame on the corner of your desk.

"Ah, Lestrade," he starts straight away, his tone arrogant, "I heard that you were completely ruining another case, but I didn't think it would be quite this _easy _to solve."

You're not sure whether you want to strangle the man now or leave it until you've finished the case. His hair is clean and cut once again, his clothes expensive and free of creases. To most people, he looks normal, but you can tell that there is a hint of somethingin his eyes.

You're not sure why you're thinking about the safety of the man now because you're fairly sure that you're about to lose your job and to be quite honest, you could quite happily murder whoever this man is.

"Sherlock, do try not to be quite so antagonistic. You know that Mummy hates it when you fight with people."

Sherlock – an odd name for an odd man, you think – turns on the man beside him with an almost-feral snarl.

"Mycroft, I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from actually trying to characterise my behaviour. It's intensely irritating."

Mycroft takes a dramatic sigh before walking past you in a flounce of a neatly pressed suit that probably costs more than you earn in a year.

"Try to be home for tea," he addresses Sherlock wearily and almost fondly before turning to you. "And Officer Lestrade, do try and refrain from associating with criminals on a regular basis."

Mycroft leaves and an awkward silence hits the room as Sherlock studies a case file intently, one long, pale hand outstretched underneath a tattered folder.

"So," you begin awkwardly, "Mycroft, my boss, is your brother?"

Sherlock looks up at you sharply from his lounging position over the desk. "Your powers of deduction never fail to impress me." He says dryly before slapping the folder down onto the desk and stretching. "Your killer's working as a part-time waiter in the restaurant opposite. One of your colleagues publically rejected him and caused this whole...spectacle."

For a minute, you just stand there and look at him, wondering why he's bothered to find you again. He meets your eyes and raises an eyebrow.

"Any questions?"

"

And now it's 5am and you're alone in your flat, decorating yourself with nicotine patches and considering drinking yourself into a stupor. You'd be lying if you said that you weren't lonely but endless dates from matchmaking sites always seem to feel wrong and end with you making some sort of hideous mistake. Like the woman wearing the hooker-red lipstick who'd seemed flattered when you'd complimented her on her outfit and then asked for the bill when you'd started talking about clowns. Women. So sensitive. That's one thing you learn in the police; if you're going to insult someone, do it to their face and for God's sake, do it well.

Sherlock had barged in your flat at two in the morning the night of that fateful date; woke you up by waiting until you were completely asleep and had roared in your ear. You nearly killed him.

"Should have taken her to a better restaurant. She was desperate." And then Sherlock had peered at you intently, narrowing his eyes and raising an eyebrow. "It is more than likely that the two of you would have engaged in sexual intercourse before she'd leave you a false number in the morning and return home to beg pity from her husband."

You'd choked at the sound of the words 'sexual intercourse' from Sherlock's mouth as you remembered that night. He'd raised an eyebrow and flung himself down on your sofa, visibly dismissing you as he opened a case file with a look of excitement.

"

And now it's still five in the goddamn morning and you're still thinking of Sherlock goddamn Holmes and John goddamn Watson.

It would be perfect if it was raining. That way, you would be able to feel sorry for yourself and picture scenarios of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes leaving the city forever. Or, better yet, the country. Instead, it is hot and humid, the heat making the back of your neck prickle and your clothes stick to your skin.

You hate him. Liar. You want to hate him. You want to tear him down to pieces until he can see how vulnerable and exposed he makes you when he humiliates you in front of everyone, when he reveals another gem from your past to everyone you're working with.

You don't want to hear the buzzer and know that he's standing there, pressing it over and over again until eventually you give in. You won't, tonight. Even though you know he'll find some way of getting into your flat, you're showing him that you're not opening the door first.

So you wait.

Nearly thirteen and a half minutes later, you hear the door swing open and the heavy footsteps make their way towards you.

"Need to use your computer." He offers no explanation whatsoever, just flips open your laptop lid and seconds later, you hear the familiar sound of Windows starting up as he guesses your password in the space of twenty seconds. There's a pause in his typing as he waits for the Internet to load and he turns to you. "I need you to get me onto this case."

You turn away. You don't want to hit him but you feel so angry, so furious that you're certain you may just have to throw a plate at the wall in order to avoid killing him.

"I'm not interested."

He types in something else and reaches underneath your desk to switch the printer on. "Important case. Unsolved for a month, ten year old may die in a day or so if I can't use you as an excuse to get onto this."

"Thought I said I wasn't interested."

Anxious for something to do with your hands, you take big steps over to the wall and switch off the mains plug, effectively silencing the printer's noisy protests as Sherlock unsuccessfully tries to load the paper.

He pauses for a minute before talking, his voice a little questioning. "You're always interested in new cases. So why are you not interested tonight?"

You turn around slowly, reaching up to rub the back of your neck with your hand. "I'm just _not_. It's late, Sherlock."

You're making your way into your bedroom when he finally seems to understand that he's done something wrong. "I fail to comprehend why we don't have sex if you're that jealous, Lestrade. You and I are more than physically compatible, as previous experience has shown us both."

You slam the bedroom door shut. Even Sherlock can take a hint.

"

As you'd predicted early in the morning, you spend the rest of the day in bed. Usually when you have rare days off, you like to go to the pub and go grocery shopping and pretend that your life is a tiny bit normal. Today though, it feels like people will look at you and know that you put your life before a potential victim's and that you're a bad, bad man. They will punish you, and you will have deserved it.

So you spend the day in bed and you ignore the phone and the sound of the mail hitting the doormat (bills, bills, more bills). You pretend to be out when Donovan knocks on your door and asks if you know where Sherlock is because he's "bloody well taken off with another piece of evidence!" You do not get up and tell her that Sherlock is in fact sitting on your sofa watching bad daytime television and eating the contents of your fridge.

When you get up at 7pm and head to the kitchen, he spares you a glance but returns to shouting out the answers to re-runs of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. He's removed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a sharp collarbone and pale, pale skin.

You return to your bedroom.

"

When you wake up, he is crouched beside your bed, elbows balanced on his knees as he stares at you. You want to ask him what he thinks he's doing, but this is Sherlock, he uses your words against you. It is best to keep quiet. So you make your way to the shower silently and you bite your lip when you cut yourself shaving and you do not yelp when the shower is too hot and turns your skin red.

"Are you going to stop ignoring me now?" He calls through from the sitting room as you find a semi-clean shirt and choke yourself on your too-tight tie.

_No_, you want to answer, but you settle for grabbing an apple from the kitchen and heading out of the door. He appears beside you in the hallway seconds before you turn the key in the lock and you tilt your head to consider him as you lock the door. He stares back and for a split-second you almost see emotion in his eyes before you remind yourself that isn't possible and head off down the stairs. As fast as Sherlock is, he doesn't have the police experience that you have and it is no problem to sprint down and hastily slip into your car.

Work is no problem. For a glorious two hours, you are Sherlock-free and Anderson is suspiciously bearable. Even when Sherlock eventually turns up freshly showered and with John Watson in tow, you're able to escape to another crime scene.

Until he appears at that one.

For four hours, you attempt to unsuccessfully avoid Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Wherever you disappear to, he dissects evidence loudly and obnoxiously beside you.

By three o'clock, Donovan has managed to insult Sherlock enough for him to return to doing whatever he does when he's not annoying you. Scientific things, you'd imagine.

You return to the office. Paperwork has never looked so good.

"

You've been sitting in your flat watching some B-grade movie for the past two hours when your buzzer rings. After seven minutes of the buzzer, you decide that actually, five minutes past nine is late enough to go to bed and really, you've had quite enough of Sherlock for the day.

"

Naturally, you wake up with Sherlock staring at you again.

"

"You _like _me." He crows after the fourth night. You shut the door on his fingers.

"

He's not there on the tenth morning. You tell yourself that you're not disappointed.

"

The tenth night follows the tenth morning, which led to quite possibly the worst day you've had in a long time. Twenty killed and forty-three injured in a bomb blast partnered with a cryptic note promising more bomb blasts the next day. Sherlock does not appear at all throughout the day. You are not disappointed. You are vindicated and you are angry and you are _hurt._

"_  
_

He appears around four AM on the eleventh morning. He doesn't press the buzzer. He just breaks in and pushes your bedroom door open. You haven't slept. You can't sleep.

"Is this exciting enough for you now, Sherlock Holmes?" you ask him sarcastically.

He doesn't reply.

"

You start talking to him again on the eleventh day. Really, it's just to solve the case. At least, that's what you tell yourself. You tell yourself that he stood by and watched sixty-three people face what they thought would be the end of the world.

"I am God, and this is my Judgement Day." The bomber tells you, and attempts to unsubtly blow himself and the rest of the police station up. He is shot in the head, leg and neck by no less than three snipers in a matter of seconds.

For a minute, there is silence as everyone surrounds the bomber, watching him bleed out, before you are bundled outside with John Watson and Sherlock Holmes by your side as your bomb disposal unit quickly saves everyone's lives.

"This is the way that the world ends; not with a bang, but a whimper." John Watson speaks quietly, almost to himself and for a moment, you feel sorry for him.

"Hardly original, John." Sherlock bites at John.

You are not in the mood for petty squabbles. You have seen twenty-four people die in the past two days. It is time to call it a day, and return to normal. You begin walking away.

"So you're just going to go back to ignoring me again?" Sherlock shouts after you. It is not a question, it is a taunt and you will not answer it.

"

He is not there on the twelfth morning. You are almost surprised.

"

Donovan wakes you up on the thirteenth morning. You spent the twelfth night drinking with her and Anderson and you have a feeling that you admitted to Donovan that you didn't want to go back to your flat "in case he was there". You now have the difficult task of using the thirteenth day to explain to your colleagues that you are not a) gay or b) a victim of domestic abuse.

"

By the sixteenth morning, you have almost given up hope.

"

It is 5am. You consider it a small mercy that you're only covered in three nicotine patches.

Your feet are tucked inside three pairs of warm socks and you have wrapped an old sleeping bag around your shoulders to try and protect yourself against the icy cold that only English weather can present in the middle of summer.

There is too much going on in your head and so you turn on the television and sit so close to it that the light hurts your eyes, but you can't stop thinking and-

The buzzer goes.

Slowly, steadily, you make your way across to the door and you unlock it. There is complete silence for a few minutes before you hear it open and you step back to let him in.

You don't let him talk. "Don't make me regret it, Sherlock."

And you step back into your bedroom but this time – this time, you leave the door open.


End file.
